Karin Alvtegen - Missing

She looked around. The park was empty.

In a moment she had taken off her rucksack, opened the little door and climbed inside.

Thursdays were our days, the days when he came to me. If I close my eyes, I can see him open the garden gate down by the road and start walking along the gravel path towards me. I remember how I felt warmth from my heart spreading through my whole body. He always took such care wiping his shoes on the doormat. There he was, wrapping me in his strong arms. Dear Lord, this was love and not sin. Love, such as You have taught us it should be. I thank You for letting me experience it.

Every time he came I had prepared the house as nicely as anyone could wish. I wanted him to realise how much I had been looking forward to seeing him. Every time I hoped he would not leave. But staying was impossible and he always left at four o'clock in the afternoon. When that hour struck I knew I had another seven days of waiting ahead and seven endless nights, full of longing to see him again. Now my whole life is such a night.

Yet I thank You, God. I am grateful for your guidance. You have shown me what I can do to help him enter Your realm, so that I can rest assured that he will be there for me when my time comes. Thank You God for letting me be your ally in the sacred work of correcting the errors of the unjust on Earth.

Lo! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable nature must put on the imperishable and this mortal nature must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

'Death is swallowed up in victory.'

'Oh Death, where is thy victory?'

'Oh Death, where is thy sting?'

The sting of death is sin and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

God, I too wish to thank You for Your protection. You have not left me alone in my task but sent that woman to shelter me. You are allowing her to atone for her sins by giving her a sacred purpose. For this I thank You, Lord God. Amen.

She had no idea where she was when she woke. It was not an uncommon sensation, but this morning it seemed especially hard to make sense of her whereabouts. The light was seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls, falling on the rubbish that surrounded her. She remembered where she was only when the bells of Sofia Church rang out seven times. She sat up to eat her last banana.

The floor was broken and covered in sawdust. Last night she had put planks across the joists to arrange somewhere to roll out her mat. She ate slowly, watching the dust whirl in the beams of sunlight.

Her sore throat wasn't troubling her any more. She definitely needed a shower after tonight. Central Station was no good, because the police were always about. She didn't dare go to the Klara shelter either.

Keeping track of time had become problematic since she'd left her diary in the Grand Hotel, but she was pretty sure her charity hand-out should be there today. First of all she just must do something about her hair. If she borrowed some money from her savings to buy hair-dye, she could collect the money afterwards.

Having extracted a twenty-kronor note from her savings, she caught the 76 bus to Ropsten. Normally she avoided buses, because it was easier to get through the underground check-ins without paying. This was the first time in six years that she had used saved money. Fourteen kronor for just one journey, what a waste!

Fucking bastards, all of them.

In the beginning she had been alone at the Renstierna Street bus stop. When people started turning up, she looked away. It was the morning rush-hour, but luckily she found two seats right at the back, one for her and one for her rucksack. When they reached Slussen all the seats had been taken and a woman standing close by her was eyeing the rucksack. Usually it wouldn't have bothered her, but just now she didn't want anyone watching at her. She hauled the rucksack into her lap and the woman sat down, taking a morning paper out of her briefcase.

Sibylla was looking steadfastly through the window as the bus was crossing Skepp Bridge and pulled up at the traffic-lights. It was next to a newsagent and the shopkeeper was putting up fresh news posters. When the bus started, he had moved enough for her to see the text. Unasked, her eyes recorded it and sent it straight to her brain.

It couldn't be true!

She sat staring blankly ahead for what seemed like an age, confusion and fear pumping through her body. A noose was tightening round her neck.

A passenger's face turned her way. Instinctively she pulled at the rucksack to make it into a bigger barrier and by shifting her position saw what her neighbour was reading. She didn't want to, but once more her eyes were recording things against her will.

The headline alone made her feel sick.

She didn't want to know any more and forced her eyes to focus on the rucksack for the rest of the journey, not daring to move until the woman got off at her stop.

The paper was left on the seat. She didn't want to. Knew she had to. Fuck them.

She grabbed the paper before getting off the bus.

On her way to Nimrod Street, she popped into the Co-op and bought a packet Rich Black dye, raiding her savings for the second time that morning. She would pay every single kronor back the moment she got her hand-out envelope from the post office box.

The Nimrod Street block of flats was an invaluable asset to her and a few others in the same predicament. Everyone in the know was exceptionally tight-lipped about it. It was information she had paid dearly for. Not in money, though.

The main door was always open and because the flats lacked showers, a couple of well-equipped shower-rooms had been built in the basement. The rooms were spacious and smartly tiled, had a lavatory with plenty of toilet paper and unlimited quantities of hot water.

They were locked, of course. Only the initiated knew where to find the spare key, fastened to a large piece of wood, in its hiding-place inside an old iron wall-cupboard just next to the doors leading to the wondrous washing facilities. Even better, you could lock the shower-rooms from the inside.

That key was worth more than its weight in gold.

As soon as she got in, she put her panties to soak in the basin, using a few drops of shampoo instead of washing liquid. Next, the hot shower. She was in luck, someone had left a bottle of conditioner. She closed her eyes, but the headline seemed fixed in her mind's eye.

Was there no end to this? Would she ever wake from this nightmare?

THE GRAND HOTEL MURDERESS STRIKES AGAIN

New ritual murder in Vastervik

For how long have you been carrying on like this?' It was her father speaking, for once. Sibylla swallowed again. The tabletop still seemed to rise and fall in front of her. 'Like what, Daddy?' Her mother snorted angrily.

'Sibylla, don't pretend. You're not such a fool you don't understand what upsets us.'

True, she did know. Obviously she had been seen in Mick's car. 'We met in the spring.'

Her parents looked at each other across the table, behaving as if they were joined by elastic bands. 'What is the man called?' 'Mikael. Mikael Persson.' 'And do we know his parents?' 'I don't think so, they live in Varnamo.'

No one spoke for awhile and Sibylla found some respite inthe silence.

'How does he earn his living in Hultaryd? I assume he's in employment.'

'He's an engineer. Car mechanic. Heknows everything about cars.'